The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“I should have gone to see you, cousin Kate,” said Mark, after a momentary struggle to seem calm and collected, “but I feared – that is, I did not know – ”

“But, Mark, dear Mark, why are you here?” said she, in a tone of heartfelt terror. “Do you know that none save those presented at the Levees, and known to the Lord Lieutenant, dare to attend these balls?”

“I came with a friend,” said Mark, in a voice where anger and self-reproach were mingled. “If he misled me, he must answer for it.”

“It was imprudent, Mr. O’Donoghue, and that’s all,” said Travers, in a tone of great gentleness; “and your friend should not have misled you. I’ll take care that nothing unpleasant shall arise in consequence. Just remain here for a moment.”

“Stay, sir,” said Mark, as Travers arose from his seat; “I hate accepting favours, even should they release me from a position as awkward as this is. Here comes my friend, Talbot, and he’ll perhaps explain what I cannot.”

“I have lost my money, Mark,” said Talbot, coming forward, and perceiving with much anxiety that his young friend was engaged in a conversation. “Let us move about and see the dancers.”

“Wait a few seconds first,” said Mark, sternly, “and satisfy this gentleman that I am not in fault in coming here, save so far as being induced by you to do so.”

“May I ask how the gentleman feels called on to require the explanation?” said Talbot, proudly.

“I wish him to know the circumstances,” said Mark.

“And I,” said Travers, interrupting, “might claim a right to ask it, as first aide-de-camp to his Excellency.”

“So, then,” whispered Talbot, with a smile, “it is the mere impertinence of office.”

Travers’ face flushed up, and his his quivered, as in an equally low tone of voice he said —

“Where and when, sir, will you dare to repeat these words?”

“To-morrow morning, at seven o’clock, on the strand below Clontarf, and in this gentleman’s presence,” said Talbot into his ear.

A nod from Travers completed the arrangement, and Talbot, placing his arm hurriedly within Mark’s, said —

“Let us get away from this, Mark. It is all settled. We meet tomorrow.”

Mark turned one look towards Kate, who was just in the act of accepting Travers’ arm to return to the ball-room. Their glances met for a second, but with how different a meaning! – in hers, a world of anxiety and interest – in his, the proud and scornful defiance of one who seemed to accept of no compromise with fortune.

“So, then, it is your friend Travers, Mark, with whom I am to have the honour of a rencontre! I’m sorry, for your sake, that it is so.”

“And why so?” asked Mark, sternly, for in his present mood he was as little satisfied with Talbot as with Travers.

“Because if I don’t mistake much, you will not have the opportunity of wiping out your old score with him. I’ll shoot him, Mark!” These last words were uttered between his almost closed teeth, and in a tone of scarce restrained anger. “Are either of us looking very bloody-minded or savage, Mark, I wonder? for see how the people are staring and whispering as we pass!”

The observation was not made without reason, for already the two young men were regarded on all sides as they passed – the different persons in their way retiring as they approached.

“How do you do, my lord? I hope I see you well,” said Talbot, bowing familiarly to a venerable old man who stood near, and who as promptly returned his salute.

“Who is it you bowed to?” said Mark, in a whisper.

“The Chief-Justice, Mark. Not that I know him, or he me; but at this critical moment such a recognition is a certificate of character, which will at least last long enough to see us down stairs. There, let me move on first, and follow me,” and as he spoke, he edged his way through a crowded door, leaving Mark to follow how he could. This was, however a task of more difficulty than it seemed, for already a number of persons blocked up the doorway, eager to hear something which a gentleman was relating to those about him.

“I can only tell you,” continued he, “that none seems to know either of them. As Clangoff has lost the diamond snuff-box the Emperor of Austria presented him with – he missed it after leaving the card-table – the presumption is, that we are favoured with somewhat doubtful company.”

“Carysford says,” cried another, “that he knows one of them well, and has often seen him in Paris at the play-houses.”

A low whisper ran around after these words, and at the instant every eye was directed to Mark O’Donoghue. The young man sustained their looks with a frown of resolute daring, turning from one to the other to see if, perchance, by any gesture or expression, he could single out one to pay the penalty for the rest – his blood boiled at the insulting glances that fell upon him, and he was in the very act of giving his temper vent, when an arm was slipped within his, and Frederick Travers whispered in his ear —

“I hope your friend has got safely away. There are some fellows here to-night of notoriously bad character, and Mr. Talbot may get into trouble on that account.”

“He has just left this. I hope before now he has reached the street.”

“Let me be your convoy, then,” said Travers, good-naturedly. “These talking fools will cease their scandal when they see us together;” and, affecting an air of easy intimacy, he led Mark through the crowd, which even already bestowed very altered glances as they passed.

“Good night, sir,” said Mark, abruptly, as they arrived at the room by which he remembered to have entered, “I see my friend yonder, awaiting me.” Travers returned the greeting, and half extended his hand, but Mark coolly bowed and turned away. The moment after he was at Talbot’s side.

“Thank heaven, we are breathing the free air again,” he exclaimed, as they issued forth into the street, “a little longer would have suffocated me.”

“It was with Travers you parted at the head of the stair?” said Talbot, inquiringly.

“Yes; he was polite enough to come up when you left me, and the company and myself have reason to be thankful to him, for assuredly, we were, both of us, forgetting our good manners, very much at the moment. They were pleased to look at me in a fashion of very questionable civility, and I, I greatly fear, was scarcely more polite. It would seem, Talbot, that some swindlers or pickpockets had introduced themselves at the assembly, and we had the honor of being confounded with them – so much for the prudence of our first step.”

“Come, come, Mark, don’t lose temper about trifles.”

“Would it have proved a trifle, if I had thrown one of those gold-laced fops out of the window into the court? I promise you the temptation was devilish strong in me to act so, at one moment. But what have we gained by all this – where were the friends you should have met – whom have you seen – what have you learned?”

Talbot made no reply, but walked on in silence.

“Or have we exposed ourselves to the taunting insolence of these people, for the mock pleasure of mixing with them. Is that our gain here?”

Still Talbot made no reply, and Mark, as if his passion had expended itself, now became silent also, and in this wise they reached the hotel, each sunk in his own personal reflections.

“Now, Mark,” said Talbot, when they had gained their room, “now let us set ourselves to think over what is to be done, and not waste a thought on what is bygone. At seven, to-morrow, I am to meet Travers; before nine I must be on the way to France, that is if he do not issue a leaden ‘ne exeat’ against me. I shall certainly fire at him – your pretty cousin will never forgive me for it, that I know well” – here he stole a side look at Mark, across whose features a flash of passion was thrown – “still, I am sorry this should have occurred, because I had many things to settle here; among others, some which more nearly concerned yourself.”

“Me! concerned me,” said Mark, in surprise.

“Yes; I am deeper in your secrets than you are aware of – deeper than you are yourself, perhaps. What would you say, Mark, if I could insure you the possession of your property and estate, as it was left to you by your grandfather, without debt or incumbrance of any kind, free from mortgage?”

“Free from Hemsworth,” cried Mark, passionately.

“Even so – I was just coming to that.”;

“I know not what I should say, Talbot, but I know what I should do – throw every farthing of it into the scale where I have thrown life and hope – the cause of my country.”

Talbot shook his head, doubtfully, for a second or two, then said: “It is not money is wanting to the enterprise, it is rather what no money can buy – the reckless courage of men willing to devote themselves to a cause which they must never hope to live to see successful, but whose graves must be the ramparts over which others will achieve liberty. No, my hopes for you point otherwise. I wish to see you as the head and representative of an ancient name and house, with the influence property and position would confer, taking your place in the movement, not as a soldier of fortune, but as a man of rank and weight.” Talbot paused for a moment to enjoy, as it were, the delight this brilliant picture of coming greatness produced upon the youth, and then went on, “such a place I can offer you, Mark.”

“How, and on what terms?” cried Mark, bursting with impatience.

“I make no conditions – I am your friend, and ask nothing but your friendship – a lucky chance has given me the opportunity to serve you – all I bargain for is, that you do not inquire further how that chance arose.”

Mark stood in mute amazement, while Talbot, unlocking his writing desk, drew forth a dark leather pocket-book, tied with a string, and laid it leisurely on the table before him.

“There is a condition I will bargain for, Mark,” said Talbot, after a pause – “although I’m sure it is a weakness, I scarcely ever thought to feel. We shall soon be separated, who knows when we shall meet again, if ever. Now, if men should speak of me in terms unworthy of one who has been your friend, laying to my charge acts of dishonour – ”

“Who will dare to do so before me?” said Mark, indignantly.

“It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me when absent – as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in these calumnies. I have told you enough of my life to let you know in what circumstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been forced upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they in revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspicion. I know it has already happened; bear it well in mind, and when your friend Henry Talbot is assailed, remember the explanation and your own promise.”

Mark grasped Talbot’s hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true friendship.

“Sit down beside me, Mark,” said he, placing the chairs at the table, “and read this.”

With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already broken.

“This is addressed to your father, Mark,” said he, showing him the superscription.

“I know that hand-writing,” said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; “that is Father Rourke’s.”

“Yes, that’s the name,” said Talbot, opening the letter. “Read this,” and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud —

“Mark O’Donoghue, son of Miles O’Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December, same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff. Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler.”

“And what of all that,” said Mark, with a voice of evident disappointment. “Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism to claim my name or my kindred?”

“No, but to claim your estate and fortune,” said Talbot, hurriedly. “Do you not perceive the date of this document – 1774 – and that you only attained your majority on last Christmas day – ”

“That cannot be,” interrupted Mark. “I joined my father in a loan upon the estate two years ago; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the same time, and I must have been of age to do so.”

“That does not follow,” said Talbot, smiling. “It suited the objects of others to make you think so; but you were little more than nineteen at the time. Here’s the certificate of your mother’s marriage, and the date is February, 1773.”

Mark’s countenance became perfectly bloodless, his lips grew livid, while his nostrils were alternately distended and contracted violently, as he breathed with a heaving effort.

“You have your choice, therefore,” said Talbot, flippantly, “to believe your father, a man of honour, or your mother – ”

“Stop,” cried Mark, as he seized his arm and shook it in his strong grasp; “speak the word, and, by Heaven, you’ll never leave this spot alive.”

Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly said —

“It was not my wish to hurt your feelings, Mark. Very little reflection on your part might convince you, that I can have no object to serve here, save my regard for you. You seemed to doubt what I said about your age, and I wished to satisfy you at once that I was correct. You were not of age till last December. A false certificate of birth and baptism enabled your father to raise a considerable sum of money with your concurrence, and also permitted him to make a sale to Hemsworth of a property strictly entailed on you and yours. Both these acts were illegal and unjust. If Hemsworth be the rightful owner of that estate your birth is illegitimate – nay, nay – I am but putting the alternative, which you cannot, dare not accept. You must hear me with temper, Mark – calmly and patiently. It is a sad lesson when one must learn to think disparagingly of those they have ever looked up to and revered. But remember, that when your father did this act, he was surrounded with difficulties on every hand. There seemed no escape from the dangers around him; inevitable ruin was his lot: he doubtless intended to apply a considerable portion of this money to the repair of his shattered fortunes – of his affection for you there can be no question – ”

“There, there,” said Mark, interrupting him rudely; “there is no need to defend a father to his son. Tell me, rather, why you have revealed this secret to me at all, and to what end have you added this to the other calamities of my fortune?”

He stood up as he said these words, and paced the room with slow steps, his head sunk upon his bosom, and his arms dropped listlessly at his side. Talbot looked upon the figure, marked with every trait of despondency, and for some moments he seemed really to sorrow over the part he had taken; then rallying with his accustomed energy, he said —

“If I had thought, Mark, that you had neither ambition for yourself, nor hatred for an enemy, I would never have told you these things. I did fancy, however, that you were one who struggled indignantly against an inglorious fortune, and, still more, believed that you were not of a race to repay injury with forgetfulness. Hemsworth, you have often told me, has been the insulting enemy of your family. Not content with despoiling you of fortune, he has done his utmost to rob you of fair fame – to reduce an honoured house to the ignoble condition of peasants, and to break down the high and haughty spirit of a noble family by the humiliating ills of poverty. If you can forgive his injuries, can you forget his insults and his taunts?”

“Would you have me repay either by arraigning my father as a criminal?”

“Not so, Mark; many other courses are open to you. The knowledge of this fact by you, places you in a position to make your own terms with Hemsworth. He who has spent thirty thousand pounds on a purchase without a title, must needs yield to any conditions you think fit to impose – you have but to threaten – ”

“That I will expose my father in a court of justice,” said Mark, between his teeth; “that I will put money in one scale, and the honour of my house in the other; that I will truck the name and credit of my race, against the acres that were theirs. No, no; you mistake me much; you know little of the kind of vengeance my heart yearns for, or you would never have tempted me with such a bait as this.”

“Be it so,” said Talbot, coolly; “Hemsworth is only the luckier man that has met such a temperament as yours to deal with; a vulgar spirit like mine would have turned the tables upon him. But I have done; keep the paper, Mark, there might come a time when it should prove useful to you. Hark! – what’s that noise below? Don’t you hear that fellow Lawless voice in the court-yard?” – and as he spoke, the voice of the host, Billy Crossley, raised very high above its usual pitch, called out —

“I tell you, gentlemen, Mr. Talbot is not in the house; he dined out to-day, and has not returned since dinner.”

A confused murmur followed this announcement; and again Crossley said, but in a still louder tone —

“You have perfect liberty to look for him wherever you please; don’t say that I gave you any impediment or hindrance; follow me – I’ll show you the way.”

Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, and recognized in Crossley’s vehemence an urgent warning to himself.

“I’m tracked, Mark,” cried he; “there, take that key – burn the papers in that desk – all of them. At seven to-morrow, meet me on the strand; if all be safe, I’ll be true to time; if not – ”

The remainder of his sentence was cut short by the hurrying sounds of feet upon the stairs, and Crossley’s voice, which in its loudest key continued to protest that Talbot was not in the house, nor had he seen him since dinner.

Mark hastily unlocked the desk and took out the papers, but when he turned round, Talbot was gone; a tremulous motion of the tapestry on the wall seemed to indicate that his escape had been made through some secret door behind it. He had no time, however, to think further of the circumstance, for scarcely had he applied the lighted candle to the papers, when the door was burst violently open, and three strange men, followed by Lanty Lawler, entered the room, while Crossley, whom they had pushed roughly aside, stood without, on the lobby, still talking as loudly as before.

“Is that him?” said one of the fellows, who seemed like a constable in plain clothes.

“No,” whispered Lanty, as he skulked behind the shoulder of the speaker; “that’s another gentleman.”

“Were you alone in this apartment?” said the same man who spoke first, as he addressed Mark in the tone of authority.

“It is rather for me to ask what business you have to come here?” replied Mark, as he continued to feed the flames with the letters and papers before him.

“You shall see my warrant when you have answered my question. Meanwhile these may be of some consequence,” said the other, as, approaching the hearth, he stooped down to seize the burning papers.

“They do not concern you,” said Mark, as he placed his foot in the very middle of the blaze.

“Stand back, sir,” cried the constable, half raising his arm to enforce the command.

“Lay but a finger on me,” said Mark, scornfully, “and I’ll dash your head against the wall.”

The insolence of this threat might have been followed by ill consequences, had not Lanty sprung hastily forward, and, catching the constable by the arm, cried out —

“It is the O’Donoghue of Glenflesk, a young gentleman of rank and fortune.”

“What do we care for his rank or fortune,” said the other, passionately. “If he obstructs the King’s warrant for the arrest of a traitor or a felon, I value him no more than the meanest beggar in the street. Those papers there, for all I know, might throw light on the whole plot.”

“They are at your service now,” said Mark, as, with a kick of his foot, he dashed the blackened embers from him, and sent them in floating fragments through the room.

Unwilling as he seemed to continue a contest in which his authority had met only defiance, the constable gave the order to his underlings to make a strict search of the apartment and the bed-room which opened into it, during which Mark seated himself carelessly in an arm-chair, and taking a newspaper from the table, affected to read it.

Lanty stood for a few seconds, irresolute what to do; then stealing softly behind Mark’s chair, he muttered, in a broken voice —

“If I thought he was a friend of yours, Master Mark – But it’s no matter – I know he’s off. I heard the gallop of a beast on the stones since we came in. Well, well, I never expected to see you here.”

Mark made no other reply to this speech than a steady frown, whose contemptuous expression Lanty cowered under, as he said once more —

“It wasn’t my fault at all, if I was obliged to come with the constables. There’s more charges nor mine against him, the chap with the black whiskers says – ”

“It’s quite clear,” said the chief of the party, as he re-entered the room, “it’s quite clear this man was here a few minutes since, and equally so that you know of his place of concealment. I tell you plainly, sir, if you continue to refuse information concerning him, I’ll take you as my prisoner. I have two warrants against him – one for highway robbery, the other for treason.”

“Why the devil have you no informations sworn against him for murder?” said Mark, insolently, for the language of the bailiff had completely aroused his passion. “Whoever he is, you are looking for, seems to have a clear conscience.”

“Master Mark knows nothing at all about him, I’ll go bail to any amount.”

“We don’t want your bail, my good friend; we want the man who calls himself Harvey Middleton in Herts, Godfrey Middleton in Surrey, the Chevalier Duchatel in France, Harry Talbot in Ireland, but who is better known in the police sheet;” and here he opened a printed paper, and pointing to the words, – “full description of John Barrington, convicted at the Maidstone assizes, and sentenced to fifteen years transportation.”

The smile of insolent incredulity with which Mark listened to these imputations on the honour of his friend, if it did not assuage the anger of the constable, served to satisfy him that he was at least no practised colleague in crime, and turning to Lanty, he talked to him in a low whisper for several minutes.

“I tell ye,” said Lanty, eagerly, in reply to some remark of the other, “his worship will never forgive you if you arrest him; his time is not yet come, and you’ll get little thanks for interfering where ye had no business.”

Whether convinced by these arguments, or deterred from making Mark his prisoner, by the conscious illegality of the act, the man collected his party, and having given them his orders in a low voice, left the room, followed by the others.

A gesture from Mark arrested Lanty, as he was in the act of passing out. “A word with you Lanty,” said he, firmly. “What is the information against Talbot? – what is he accused of?”

“Sure didn’t you hear yourself,” replied Lanty, in a simpering, mock bashful voice. “They say he’s Barrington the robber, and faith, they’ve strong evidence that they’re not far out. ‘Tis about a horse I sold him that I came here. I didn’t want to harm or hurt any body, and if I thought he was a friend of yours – ”

“He is a friend of mine,” said Mark, “and therefore these stories are but one tissue of falsehoods. Are you aware, Lanty” – and here as the youth spoke his voice became low and whispering – “are you aware that Talbot is an agent of the French Government – that he is over here to report on the condition of our party, and arrange for the rising?”

“Is it in earnest you are?” cried Lanty, with an expression of admirably dissembled astonishment. “Are you telling me truth, Master Mark.”

“Yes, and more still – the day is not far distant now, when we shall strike the blow.”

“I want you here, my worthy friend,” said the constable, putting his head into the room, and touching Lanty’s shoulder. The horsedealer looked confused, and for a second seemed undetermined how to act; but suddenly recovering his composure, he smiled significantly at Mark, wished him a good night, and departed.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DAYBREAK ON THE STRAND

It was with an impatience almost amounting to madness that Mark O’Donoghue awaited the dawn of day; long before that hour had arrived he had made every preparation for joining his friend. A horse stood ready saddled awaiting him in the stable, and his pistols – the weapons Talbot knew so well how to handle – were carefully packed in the heavy holsters. The time settled for the meeting was seven o’clock, but he was certain that Talbot would be near the place before that hour, if not already there. The scene which followed Talbot’s escape also stimulated his anxiety to meet with him; not that any, even the faintest suspicion of his friend’s honour ever crossed Mark’s mind, but he wished to warn him of the dangers that were gathering around him, for were he arrested on a suspicion, who was to say what material evidence might not arise against him in his real character of a French spy. Mark’s was not a character long to brood over doubtful circumstances, and seek an explanation for difficulties which only assumed the guise of suspicions. Too prone always to be led by first impressions of every body and every thing, he hated and avoided whatever should disturb the opinions he thus hastily formed. When matters too complicated and knotty for his immediate comprehension crossed him, he turned from them without an effort, and rather satisfied himself that it was a point of honour to “go on believing,” than harbour a doubt even where the circumstances were calculated to suggest it. This frame of mind saved him from all uneasiness on the score of Talbot’s honour; he had often heard how many disguises and masks his friend had worn in the events of his wild and dangerous career, and if he felt how incapable he himself would have been to play so many different parts, the same reason prevented his questioning the necessity of such subterfuges. That Harry Talbot had personated any or all of the persons mentioned by the constable, he little doubted, and therefore he regarded their warrant after him as only another evidence of his skill and cleverness, but that his character were in the least involved, was a supposition that never once occurred to him. Amid all his anxieties of that weary night, not one arose from this cause; no secret distrust of his friend lurked in any corner of his heart; his fear was solely for Talbot’s safety, and for what he probably ranked as highly – the certainty of his keeping his appointment with Frederick Travers; and what a world of conflicting feelings were here! At one moment a sense of savage, unrelenting hatred to the man who had grossly insulted himself, at the next a dreadful thrill of agony that this same Travers might be the object of his cousin’s love, and that on his fate, her whole happiness in life depended. Had the meeting been between himself and Travers – had the time come round to settle that old score of insult that lay between them, he thought that such feelings as these would have been merged in the gratified sense of vengeance, but now, how should he look on, and see him fall by another’s pistol? – how see another expose his life in the place he felt to be his own? He could not forgive Talbot for this, and every painful thought the whole event suggested, embittered him against his friend as the cause of his suffering. And yet, was it possible for him ever himself to have challenged Travers? Did not the discovery of Kate’s secret, as he called it to her, on the road below the cliff, at once and for ever, prevent such a catastrophe? Such were some of the harassing reflections which distracted Mark’s mind, and to which his own wayward temper and natural excitability gave additional poignancy; while jealousy, a passion that fed and ministered to his hate, lived through every sentiment and tinctured every thought. Such had been his waking and sleeping thoughts for many a day-thoughts which, though lurking, like a slow poison, within him, had never become so palpable to his mind before; his very patriotism, the attachment he thought he felt to his native country, his ardent desire for liberty, his aspirations for national greatness, all sprung from this one sentiment of hate to the Saxon, and jealousy of the man who was his rival. Frederick Travers was the embodiment of all those feelings he himself believed were enlisted in the cause of his country.